Dream house: at twilight

Cameron Maynard/Courtesy of Rizzoli

Cameron Maynard/Courtesy of Rizzoli

This house is too fancy for me, OBVIOUSLY. If I so much as walked in the door I'd probably just pee in my pants or start drooling on myself. I have a weird fight-or-flight response to ancient stone manses, a mixture of claustrophobia and Edgar Allan Poe. They make me twitchy and anxious. Also I have no idea what people do in houses like this, how they pass the time, if they stand around licking gold foil off the wallpaper or teaching skinny wolfhounds stupid tricks, like how to walk on their hind legs or balance teacups on their noggins. Actually a coffee table that's just a live wolfhound with a pint of beer on its head would be pretty amazing to see. (Jk, friends of dogs/PETA.) 

But who knows, maybe the people who live in these homes are very normal. Maybe they listen to "Gord's Gold" on the hi-fi and invite their friends over to play Scattergories. Maybe one person is assigned to bring the Cheetos and guacamole, just like any old party attended by any old body, and when the party's over they all just drive home to Monaco or wherever. But that's irrelevant. All I really want to do here is stand beneath one of those trees at the hour of dusk and gaze up at the lights switching on, one by one, room by room and floor by floor.

Source: http://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2015/03...

Dream house: wee little glow shed

This itty bitty house

comes with its own moose

and glows in the dark.

From A Glow in the Desert @ the New York Times: the whole point of the enterprise is sustainable, off-the-grid living, but—non-news flash to my many fans/knife to the heart for my mother—I like this part best:

Mr. Wells, a sociable and cheerful host, is more than content to be living alone.

"I've been single for so long," he said. "I can't imagine not being single. The thought of compromising my day doesn't appeal to me; I don't care what the benefits are."

All photos by Tony Cenicola.

Source: http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2011/03...

Maximal minimalism

The anti-dream home! I'm up with the minimalist trend and all, but I suspect there's also a point where distilling something to its essence (i.e., what's necessary) departs from or in fact inflicts pain upon what's actually meaningful (i.e., the point at which something becomes an empty shell, or worse, a back-breaking futon mat on an $8,000 slab of hardwood). You can clear out all the clutter, but isn't that occasionally where the genius—or the joy—is? Plus where do you spill your coffee? Where are the pillows? The lamps? The bedside tables piled with dust-collecting curios and eyedrops and books? And what is up with the Blair Witch/Goody Proctor chair of nothingness in the corner? Do you just perch there and gaze out the window at your own soul fleeing into the desert?

It comes down to personal boundaries, of course, and god knows there are many things about this bedroom that resemble my own, but that's due to laziness and not being able to pound nails into a brick wall, not deliberate choices I'm trying to repackage as an artful conceit. And in the language of my peoples: To assume that everything can or should be reduced to the metaphorical level of a Haiku is to discount the potential value of a sonnet, is it not? 

+ anyhoo: from tumblr, natch

Dream house: open air

I follow the blog Remodelista only sporadically because, come on, everybody and their grandma knows blogs are dead. But it's filled with pretty pictures and wildly implausible life scenarios, and I do my best to remember the people who inhabit the structures it promotes are basically aliens, at least to a middle-class Midwestern middle-of-the-road tract house conformist like me. Still, I like to think I'd have the presence of mind and backbone to say that when I ask for a gazebo, do not build me a goddamn Japanese teahouse.

In my imaginary future, though, sure, I'd have tea here, why not. 

p.s. Something about dream houses makes me unusually aggressive. Is this related to my status as the 99%? Or the 47%? Math is the worst.